Part 24 (1/2)
”Are we friends, you and I?” the prince asked.
Odysseus shrugged. ”At this moment we are. Tomorrow is another day.”
”Tomorrow I shall be dead, Odysseus. This will be the death of me.” He gestured to a deep wound in his side where dark blood was pumping out onto the ground. ”A thinner man would be dead already.”
The Ithakan king nodded. ”What happened at the bridges?” he asked.
Antiphones scowled, and his ashen face darkened a little. ”My fool of a father, Priam, had secretly instructed his Eagles to torch the bridges using nephthar nephthar if our forces started retreating. Trojans do not retreat, he says.” if our forces started retreating. Trojans do not retreat, he says.”
Odysseus felt a wave of revulsion. ”Is he quite insane now?” he asked, shocked by the ruthless cruelty of the Trojan king to his own troops. ”It is sometimes hard to tell the difference between insanity and cold-blooded brutality.”
Antiphones tried to lift himself up into a sitting position, but he was too weak and sank down again. Odysseus saw that the flow of his wound had lessened. He knew the man did not have much longer to live.
The prince said, ”He is the cruel and selfish king he always was.” He sighed. ”He has times of confusion. We thought it was the wine, for he hardly eats. Then he has insane ideas like this one. Hektor just ignores them. But this...” He gestured toward the river. ”He is cunning still, you see. He told no one except his Eagles. And they would all kill themselves for him on his command.”
A Mykene soldier walked over to them, his sword red with blood, looking for enemy wounded. Odysseus waved him away.
Antiphones was silent for a while, and Odysseus thought he had died. Then the big man said, despair in his voice, ”Troy will fall. She cannot be saved.”
Odysseus nodded sadly. ”Agamemnon will win, and the city will fall. Once we reach the great walls and the city is under siege, it is only a matter of time. There will be a traitor. There always is.”
Antiphones said weakly, ”I thought she would last a thousand years. There is a prophecy...”
Odysseus said irritably, ”There is always a prophecy. I do not believe in prophecies, Antiphones. In a thousand years the Golden City will be dust, its walls ruined, flowers growing wild where Priam's palace once stood.”
Antiphones smiled weakly. ”That sounds like a prophecy, Odysseus.”
The king leaned toward him. ”But she will not die, Antiphones. I promise you this. Her story will not be forgotten.” Already in his mind a tale was forming of a warrior's wrath and the death of a hero.
The prince's eyes had closed. He whispered, ”I was the traitor...” Then he died.
Weary, Odysseus stood. He saw the soldier he had sent away find another Trojan soldier who was gravely wounded and unable to save himself. The Mykene warrior thrust a sword through his heart cleanly, then moved on. His eye was caught by the body of a young man lying in the mud, and he walked toward him. Odysseus saw that the youngster had red hair and was without armor. One arm moved feebly as if he were trying to turn himself over. As the Mykene soldier raised his sword, Odysseus said, ”Hold!”
The man paused and looked at him doubtfully.
”He is one of mine, soldier. Do you know me?”
”You are Odysseus, king of Ithaka. Everyone knows you.” The man lowered his sword and moved away.
The boy was plastered with mud and blood and seemed dazed by a blow to the head. Odysseus knelt beside him and helped him turn over.
”Xander! I never thought to see you here,” he said. ”Being a hero again, lad?”
Xander awoke with a start to find that it was evening and he was on a sandy beach. He could hear the sound of waves cras.h.i.+ng against rocks, the distant sound of lyres and pipes, and low voices murmuring close by.
”Lie still, you fool,” said a deep voice, ”and give that wound a chance to heal. It may have pierced your vitals.”
”Then I am a dead man,” another man said irritably. ”If I must walk the Dark Road, I do not plan to do it sober. Give me that jug.”
Xander's head hurt abominably, and as he tried to sit up, the world lurched around him. He lay down again with a groan.
”How are you feeling, Xander?” a voice asked.
He opened his eyes a crack and was surprised to see Machaon looking down at him, his face in shadow as the sun fell at his back.
”Where are we, Machaon?” he asked. ”Why are we on a beach?” He tried to sit up again and this time succeeded. He found that his leather satchel was lying by his side.
”Drink this,” the healer said. Kneeling alongside him, he brought to Xander's lips a cup of delicious-smelling liquid. The boy sipped it, then drank it down greedily. It was warm and tasted, he thought, of summer flowers. He had never tasted anything so good. He found his head clearing a little, and he looked around.
From where he sat, all he could see was soldiers, some wounded and lying down, others sitting around campfires, laughing and joking. The black hulls of s.h.i.+ps pulled up on the sand hid his view of the sea, though he could smell its salt air. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized where he was.
”We are on the beach you call the Bay of Herakles, and I am not Machaon,” said the healer. Sitting down, he poured thick liquid from a clay pot into a cup of water warming over a fire. He looked up. Xander could see now that it was not the face of his mentor, though the two men were very alike. This man was older and nearly bald, and one of his eyes was strange, the eyeball pale and pearly.
”My name is Podaleirios, and Machaon is my brother,” the healer said. ”You clearly know him, Xander. Is he well?”
”No,” the boy admitted regretfully. ”When last I saw him, he was very sick, sir. I wish I could help him. He has always been kind to me. Why am I here with the enemy?”
There was a burst of laughter at his words, and someone said, ”You are in the Thessalian camp, boy. You should be proud to be with Achilles and his Myrmidons, the finest warriors in the world.”
The speaker was a slender young man with fair hair braided and pulled back to his neck. He was cleaning blood off his arms, but Xander guessed it was someone else's, for he looked uninjured. Beside him was a huge dark-haired warrior dressed in black, and lying between them a bald-headed man with a braided red beard. His chest was heavily bandaged, and Xander could see blood leaking and staining the white material. His healer's eye noted the gray sheen on the man's face and the feverish look in his eye.
”Podaleirios,” Xander asked the healer, ”I don't know how I got here, but can I return to Troy now?”
The men laughed again, and Podaleirios said, ”Call me White-Eye, Xander. Everybody else does. You were brought here by Odysseus of Ithaka. He found you unconscious on the field of battle and carried you to safety. And you cannot return to Troy. You are now healer and surgeon to the warriors of Thessaly.
”This is Achilles, king of Thessaly”-the healer gestured to the black-clad giant-”and you are now his servant.”
Xander stared in wonder at the legendary warrior. ”Lord,” he said humbly, ”I am not a priest of Asklepios, pledged to help the sick or injured wherever I find them. I am just a helper to Machaon. I belong in Troy.”
Achilles frowned. ”Odysseus tells me you trained with Machaon in the House of Serpents. If such a famous healer sent you onto the battlefield to help the Trojan wounded, then he must have faith in your skills. Are you saying you will not help my stricken warriors? Think carefully on your answer, boy.”
Shamefaced, Xander said, ”I'm sorry, lord. I will do what I can to help.”
To White-Eye, Achilles said, ”At dawn, when the boy has rested, take him up to King's Joy. He will be valuable there.”
The healer nodded and moved away. A servant came to the campfire, offering platters of meat and corn bread to the warriors. One was placed at the wounded man's side, but he did not touch it, merely swigged from his jug of wine. Achilles pointed at Xander and nodded, and the servant gave the boy some food. It was roasted pig, warm with greasy juices, salty and tasty. Xander felt his stomach grumble in reaction to the wonderful smell. He realized he had not eaten all day or the day before. He wondered when he last had tasted any food, then forgot about it as he sank his teeth into the succulent meat.
There was silence for a while as the warriors ate. Then Achilles said to the wounded man, ”I will have you carried to King's Joy, Thibo. It will be cold on the beach tonight. At least there you will be under shelter.”
Thibo shook his head. ”I'll be all right here by the fire. I don't want to be up there with the dead and dying.”
”I am your king and could command you,” Achilles said mildly.
Thibo grunted. ”Would you want to be up there, in that place of torment?”
Achilles shook his head and said no more.